


Can I Touch Your Daisy?

by smallestshrike



Category: Hannibal (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M, human objects, twittibal - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallestshrike/pseuds/smallestshrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some well-known and less-well-known objects from various fandoms turn into human beings. Hilarity, and angst, (and probably smut) ensue. Blame twitter. <br/>In the immortal words of A.J. from Empire Records, "I don't feel the need to explain my art to you, Warren".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Objects and Oncology

**Author's Note:**

> Title and skeleton plot credit go to twitter user @M_verger.   
> Baby Winchester is intellectual property of @actual_impala67  
> Saul Lecter was birthed from the depraved mind of Abbi/@thelectersaw  
> Wendy Lecter belongs to Marinella/@WendyLecter
> 
> I really can't apologize enough for this madness.

 

It is the year of our Lord, 2014, and inanimate objects have mysteriously started becoming human. No garage, pantry, or kitchen drawer is safe: the objects are walking; the objects are talking; and the objects are hungry…

For love.

\--

When he first became human, Baby Winchester had never imagined that his body might be vulnerable in the same way as real human bodies. During his time as a 1967 Chevy Impala, he’d seen enough to understand the fragility of human life—occasionally, he’d even been responsible for it.

But he hadn’t imagined he’d go out this way. Disease? What did a car know of disease?

They’d diagnosed the cancer three months ago, and it had taken an aggressive and brutal turn. Baby had thought the bruises, the tiredness, the shortness of breath were just symptomatic of being out of shape and a little run down (no pun intended). But after some prompting from his former owner (Baby wasn’t sure what to call Dean, now: sometimes he’d go to say ‘Dad’, see the expression on Dean’s face, and change it to ‘Dean’ halfway through, resulting in an utterance that sounded a lot like ‘Dead’) he’d gone to the doctor.

And then to the phlebotomist.

And then to the oncologist.

The prognosis was not good: Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia was aggressive and relentless, and had insidiously spread throughout Baby’s bone marrow. It had stumped the doctor, somewhat, given Baby’s appearance: the young man looked to be in his early twenties, with an unkempt mop of ash blonde hair, high cheekbones, and the kind of large blue eyes that would have been more at home on Shirley Temple than on a…well, a car-turned-human. Since ALL was most common in children under the age of eight, the doctor had been loath to offer the diagnosis—had ordered more tests, more examinations and appointments.

Of course, what the doctor didn’t know was that Baby _had_ only been human for two years. Technically, he _was_ a child.

Of course, the gentle curls of blonde hair were sparse, now. Not gone completely—not yet (Baby refused to give in, to shave it all off; as if doing so might be akin to admitting defeat), but certainly lacking the volume and shine of their glory days. His cheekbones were more prominent now than ever before, and his skin had taken on a washed out, sallow appearance. His eyes, formerly the living embodiment of romance novel clichés, had lost their sparkle.

He’d been moved to the hospital about a week ago, since he spent more time in it than out of it, anyway. St. Miriam’s was a small, privately owned facility, which Baby ordinarily wouldn’t have been able to afford, but for the intervention of his phenomenally wealthy, extremely attractive fiancé Wendy.

Baby and Wendy had met when Baby had broken into her house. He hadn’t really had a reason, aside from a crippling case of ennui. As a car, he’d gone on numerous adventures and wild rides (literally), and being a person was turning out to be a lot less eventful. Once the initial novelty had worn off, Baby had sunk into a quagmire of boredom. A little smash and grab had seemed like a good idea. If nothing else, he’d figured it’d get the adrenaline pumping.

He’d smashed Wendy’s windows, but all he’d managed to grab was her heart.

He couldn’t have asked for more.

Wendy, of course, was distraught by the diagnosis. Baby knew she was trying to be brave for him, but every time she visited he saw it in her eyes: the despair, the fear, the lingering tatter of hope that grew increasingly threadbare with each passing day.

He was going to die. Before he’d ever really had the chance to live.

\--

Before he was a moderately successful B-list actor, Saul Lector was an Omcan Model 220 Band Saw. The chief use of the saw, according to the Omcan Catalog, was for slicing through large hunks of meat and bone. Normally, the meat and bone belonged to creatures of the bovine, porcine, or ovine variety. In Saul’s case, he’d been hacking up choice cuts of Homo Sapiens Sapiens for as long as he could remember.

It made it somewhat difficult to hold down a regular job, now that he was a person.

Of course, a career as a Hollywood actor was, in its own way, not dissimilar to professionally mutilating people. Saul (formerly ‘Saw’, but that moniker had earned him some pretty weird looks and a lot of jokes about being a serial killer with a penchant for puzzles, which he understandably wished to distance himself from) had left the dreary frigidity of Baltimore for sunny Los Angeles after his ‘father’ had viciously murdered a whole bunch of people in their home, then split. It had seemed unlikely that Saul would be able to fend for himself in the wake of Hannibal Lecter’s disappearance, and anyway, he didn’t fancy getting caught with blood on his hands by the emergency response teams.

For a dark moment, he’d _almost_ wished he was still a saw. At least then, his father might not have left him behind. And the FBI don’t typically arrest kitchen appliances.

So he’d headed for where it was warm—for the filth and the glitz and the smog and the glamour of Los Angeles, where there were, he had heard, probably people even _weirder_ than he was.

“Everything alright, Saul?”

Brooke had been watching him closely all evening—or as closely as someone high off their nut on crystal meth can watch another person. Her green eyes were bloodshot and watery, and the hand that gripped the crystal stem of the champagne flute was moving to a beat all its own. She sloshed champagne down the front of her dress and giggled to herself.

Inwardly, Saul Lecter screamed.

“Yes, I am quite alright, thank you,” Saul smiled tightly, glanced around the restaurant in the hopes that the waiter would hurry the goddamn shit fuck up and bring the check. It was usually at this point of the night that Brooke began drunkenly commenting on his aesthetic appeal, and he was in no mood to deflect her ham-fisted advances.

Saul tolerated Brooke for two reasons: firstly, she was his manager. Secondly, she used to be a teacup. As much as he found her flat out obnoxious a great deal of the time, it was nice to know you weren’t alone.

“Well, good” Brooke finally managed to raise the glass to her mouth, and took a sip. “You should be happy, since you finished filming _Crazy Daisy_ ,”

At the mention of the film, Saul’s lips pursed and he practically slumped in his chair. _Crazy Daisy_ had been one of the worst film scripts he’d ever seen, with a shaky-at-best premise (man works as orderly in mental institution, falls in love with beautiful allegedly crazy manic pixie dreamgirl—the eponymous Daisy—who turns out to be, surprise, _not_ crazy, just looking for, like, whimsical life experiences and shit), truly appalling dialogue, and a middle of the road director who was recovering from a severe drug and alcohol problem. Brooke had made him take the role because, for some reason, Fox Searchlight had pumped a cool twenty million into the production. And Daisy was played by Scarlett Johansson (‘She’s so hot right now!’ Brooke had said ‘Did you see her in _The Avengers_?’).

“…oh cheer UP”

He was dragged from his ruminations by Brooke’s lilting slur. She was gazing across the table at him, chin propped up on one hand, her mane of back-combed platinum blonde hair frizzing out every which way.

“I’m cheered,” he tried for a smile. It looked exactly as you’d expect it to look when a saw smiles.

“I just mean, you’ve done well. You got a good pay check, and as much as _you_ didn’t like the film, it’s gonna be big when it hits the box office. Trust me…” she reached her hand across the table, brushed her hand against his knuckles.

Instantly, Saul recoiled, the sound emanating from his throat somewhere between a growl and a whine of steel on steel. Brooke blinked, a flash of hurt registering on her face before her expression subsided once more into the slack benevolence of inebriation.

“I’m sorry! Jesus,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “You and your fucking _touch thing,_ ”

“It’s not a _thing_ ,” Saul muttered, his jaw tight, feeling dually guilty and angry “It’s called haphephobia. You _know_ that”.

“Whatever,” Brooke shrugged, raised her hand to hail a passing waiter, gesturing him to refill her glass. “ _I_ think you just need to get laid”.

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Baby, You Can Drive My Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam Winchester have experienced a lot of weird ass shit in their time. But when Dean becomes unhealthily obsessed with the disappeared of his car, and concocts a crazed conspiracy theory that leads them both to the wilds of Baltimore, Sam starts to worry...

Previously on _Can I Touch Your Daisy_...

Baby Winchester, formerly a 1967 Chevy Impala, languishes in a hospital bed, dying of a rare form of Leukemia.

Saul Lecter, formerly Hannibal Lecter's culinary saw, dines with his agent and manager, Brooke, formerly Hannibal Lecter's smashed teacup, to discuss his most recent feature film and the future of his career.

Now....

* * *

 

 

Sam Winchester dumped the Taco Bell bag down on the linoleum table with a wet _thwack_. The distinctive, intoxicating scent of cheese and something the FDA had decreed could legally pass for meat wafted up through the top of the bag.

Dean Winchester did not look up from the laptop screen.

Sam cleared his throat, arms folded across his chest. “Do I have to chisel your eyeballs off the screen, Dean? Or are you gonna eat something?”

Dean made a noncommittal noise, steepled his fingers and stared deeper into the glow of the LCD.

With a small grunt of annoyance, Sam snapped the laptop shut.

“Hey!” Dean glared up at his brother, “the hell, man? I was reading something”.

“Oh yeah, Dean? Well guess what—whatever it is you were _reading_ will still be there in twenty minutes, after you’ve digested this breakfast burrito. Okay?” Sam ran a hand through his hair, sighing “Listen, you haven’t eaten in like, two days, man. I’m starting to worry about you”.

“Ah, c’mon Sam—you don’t have to worry about _me”_ Dean rose from the spindly-legged motel chair and clapped Sam on the shoulder, grinning. “I’m good. I’m _great_. I’m just trying to find out what happened to my _frickin’ car_ ….”

Sam had the good grace to wait until Dean had turned away to roll his eyes. Dean had been on about his _frickin’ car_ for a good six months, ever since he’d broken his silence on the subject and announced, with a degree of passion and intensity that Sam was wholly unaccustomed to, that the Impala had not, in fact, been stolen.

Sure, it had been a traumatic event. As much as Sam couldn’t entirely relate to the deep and unyielding bond between Dean Winchester and his car, he did, on some level, understand it. The Impala had belonged to their dad, had been a constant in Dean’s life ever since they were both little kids.

But still, it had been _two years_ since the Impala had disappeared from a nondescript motel parking lot. And as time marched on, Dean’s insistence that the Impala could (indeed, _would_ ) be found seemed to grow stronger rather than weaker. He was completely resistant to the regular grieving process, and had been stuck firmly in denial ever since he’d walked out of the dingy West Texas motel room to find Baby missing.

To Dean’s way of thinking, there was no _way_ Baby had been _stolen_. That wasn’t how things worked, for the Winchester brothers. They were not victims of petty theft and humdrum, tedious mishap. When fortune failed to shine upon them, it was usually in the form of vengeful hellspawn. Regular bad luck was something Dean was inherently suspicious of.

Instead, he was adamant that something had happened—something suspicious, something Machiavellian, something _supernatural_ \--and that, as a result, Baby could be recovered.

Dean’s completely inability to let the Impala go was worrisome, to say the least. He was more broken up about the car than he had been about the loss of their dad, and this scared Sam—shook him to his very core. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t _right_.

After the regular channels had failed them (it wasn’t as if they could file a police report, but Sam had placed calls to all their contacts, made sure hunters coast to coast were keeping an eye out for the distinctive black vehicle), Dean had begun concocting increasingly wild theories to account for the Impala’s disappearance—theories that would have put the most ardent conspiracy theorists to shame. First it was demons. Then it was the government. Then it was aliens.

But it was only a few weeks ago that things became seriously concerning. Dean had started to voluntarily seek out _libraries,_ had clocked more hours on the laptop in a 24 hour period than Sam would have in a week. And when Sam checked the browser history, it wasn’t all _bustyasianbeauties.com_ —Dean had somehow gained access to academic databases, was browsing articles about obscure Eastern-European animancy, about Mezzo-American witchcraft cults that imbued inanimate objects with the spirits of the dead. He was combing news sites, cross-referencing mainstream journalism with the far leaning left and the little known areas of the darkweb populated by paranoid occultists and ex-con wingnuts.

In short, Dean Winchester had become _an academic._

It was weird.

Sam watched as Dean started to ferret about in the motel safe, pulling out fake passports and fraudulent IDs, their wallets and their counterfeit passports. After a few moments of foraging, he withdrew a notebook and held it up triumphantly.

Sam eyed the notebook, eyebrow raised.

“What?” the self-satisfied grin on Dean’s face faded, “You don’t have the monopoly on research, y’know. I’m trying to tell you something important, here. I think I might have a lead…”

“That’s your research?” Sam’s eyebrow arched so high that it disappeared under his bangs. “In _that_ book?”

“…yeah” Dean looked from Sam to the notebook and back again, defensive. “What about it?”

“It’s…” Sam cleared his throat “…pink”.

Dean turned the notebook over in his hands, shrugging as if he hadn’t previously noticed “So?”

“It’s…got a picture of Hello Kitty on it,” the corners of Sam’s mouth quirked up in a smirk “…Hello Kitty in a KISS costume” he took a step closer, taking the notebook from Dean and examining it. Sam’s grin broadened. “…that’s Gene Simmons, right? Hello Kitty dressed as Gene Simmons?”

Dean rolled his shoulders, inhaling sharply through his nose. “It was all they had at Walgreens…”

“Sure it was”

“Grow up, Sammy.” Dean snatched the notebook back, “I’m comfortable in my masculinity. I can rock it.”

“You can rock a pink Hello Kitty notebook?” Sam leaned closer “…is that _glitter_ on your hands?”

“Look, can you just shut up for a minute and focus on the fact that _my car is missing?”_ Dean snapped, opening up the notebook to a random page and slamming it spine first down on the table. “Check it out.”

“Alright, alright” Sam held his hands up in surrender, still trying not to laugh, and sat down in the chair opposite, taking the book and flipping through. “What am I looking at?”

“The newspaper reports—see ‘em? That’s local news, mostly. A couple of blog posts. The stories didn’t get picked up by the mainstream media because they’re…”

Sam squinted at the newsprint Dean had painstakingly glued inside the notebook. One headline read _Local Woman Claims Car Came to Life_. “…because they’re _insane_?”

Dean made a tight noise in the back of his throat, but pressed on “The chick in the article, Freddie Lounds—she’s some trash tabloid crime journalist in Baltimore—she reckons she went outside one night to drive to a crime scene, and her 2012 Jeep Liberty had turned into a small brunette girl”.

Sam looked up at Dean. There was no need to articulate what he was thinking. It was written all over his face.

“What?” Dean grabbed the notebook back, flipping through the pages maniacally “C’mon dude, it’s really not that weird. Not compared to some of the stuff we’ve looked into…”

“Dean,” Sam tried his best not to sound _too_ condescending “these people sound…sick. You know. Not, um…not entirely mentally functional…”

Dean ignored him “There’s another couple of articles—you kinda gotta read between the lines, but reports of property being stolen or missing, and at the same time these weird people turn up who’ve got no idea how to act or behave like regular humans. See?” he held out the notebook again, to a grainy CCTV picture of a woman stripping down to nothing in a crowded shopping mall. “This chick? Started wandering around in public with nothing on. When the cops found her, she said she was a frickin’ _teacup_ ”.

“A teacup?” Sam shook his head “Listen, Dean, I know you want your car back. I get it. It’s hard. It sucks. But these people? They’re mentally ill. Objects don’t spontaneously come to life and just…walk away. That’s crazy.” He reached out to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder “…just sit down and eat something, okay? Maybe we can ask someone else to put in a call to the cops, reopen the investigation. Whatever you want. But you can’t seriously be thinking of driving across the country to chase down some hack reporter who’s off her meds and thinks her car turned into a human being…”

Dean was already shrugging on his jacket.

“Listen, Sammy…” he tucked the notebook under his arm, grabbed the keys off the hook. The mere fact that Dean was even _thinking_ about driving long distance in the bumblebee yellow VW Beetle they’d jacked from an impound in Nova Scotia spoke volumes. He was serious. He really, truly thought there was a case here.

“Dean. Seriously?” Sam rose from the table “C’mon, man. Let’s just think about this for a second…”

“If you don’t wanna come, that’s fine” Dean’s hand was already on the doorknob, “I’ll call you when I figure out what’s going on. Kay?” he tugged the door open, disappeared from view.

Sam sighed heavily. This was insane. _Dean_ was insane. There was no way in hell the Impala had sprouted legs and walked away of its own accord. That was crazytalk.

Was the loss of his car _really_ going to prove to be Dean Winchester’s undoing?

The door to the motel room reopened. Dean’s hand snaked through the gap, snatched up the Taco Bell bag. He poked his head around the door, shot Sam a small grin.

“C’mon, dude. What’s the worst that can happen?”

It didn’t take long for Sam Winchester to pack his bags.

If Dean really was experiencing some sort of psychotic break, _someone_ had to be around to pick up the pieces.


	3. Metaphysical Movie Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy Lecter and her boyfriend, Baby (the human Impala) spend a little quality time watching trashy movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on "Can I Touch Your Daisy"...
> 
> Dean Winchester, deeply distressed at the loss of his '67 Chevy Impala, shows Sam his Hello Kitty notebook full of research.
> 
> Sam worries for Dean's sanity, also his masculinity. 
> 
> Dean refuses to eat a breakfast burrito, storms out in search of Baby....

“What do you feel like doing now, darling?”

Wendy Lecter was curled up against Baby’s left side, the graceful arc of her hip covered by the sky blue hospital blanket. Her palms lay flat on his chest, head resting there too, listening to his heart.

The blood in Baby’s veins pumped sluggishly, thickened by sickness. It had been a particularly bad day. The chemo had made him sicker than usual, and he’d spent a solid hour vomiting inelegantly into a trashcan whilst Wendy stroked his back and tried to sooth him. But her soft murmurings, her kindness, the gentle way she pressed chaste kisses to his temples—it was all useless, in the end. No matter how many painkillers the doctor’s gave him, how many antinauseants or cold compresses, no matter how sweet and attentive his girlfriend was, the fact remained: Baby Winchester was doing to die.

On days like today, it was almost impossible for Baby to claw his way up out of the pit of depression where his illness had thrust him. Sure, everybody died: he understood that. And the particular fate to which he had been assigned—the disease, the suffering—these weren’t uncommon, either. But he’d spent so much of his existence as an inanimate object. He’d never really contemplated his own mortality—not until it was too late. He’d naively assumed that there must be something about his genetic makeup, some magic, some trick of DNA that would make him immune to humanity’s slow march towards death. After all, he was stronger than most humans. On a bad day, he could bench press 4000 pounds. It was not unheard of for doorknobs to crumble in his vice-like grip. He could take a beating, too—had taken a _hell_ of one, the night he’d met Wendy.

Existentially, he’d never contemplated his own demise. Cars don’t have much call for metaphysics. The odometer keeps track of the miles, and the vehicle drives steadily on. Until it doesn’t. Until it stops.

“Baby?” Wendy looked up at him, brows knit in concern. The young man had been so withdrawn lately. So distant. The behavior was unusual for him—or would have been, were he in good health. When she’d first met Baby he was vibrant, cocky, the kind of casual confidence that made girls swoon, without seeming too arrogant or predatory. She’d found him in the dining room, shards of glass still adhering to his jacket, hair mussed and cheeks flushed, staring wild-eyed for something to grab, something to take. She’d known then that all he _really_ needed was warmth. Baby had needed somebody to care about. Something to make his existence in the human world _mean_ something.

And really, who wouldn’t have stepped up to the plate? Baby was _hot_ , all lean muscle and fine features, _pretty_ , but not in an overly effeminate way. When he’d told her what he’d used to be—a 1967 Chevrolet Impala—it had all made sense. Wendy had no trouble accepting that objects could turn human. She, herself, wasn’t exactly a _person_. At least not originally…

Wendy Lecter had, before she gained human form, dwelt in the writhing, twisted subconscious of Doctor Hannibal Lecter. She couldn’t remember much, before she had been plunged unceremoniously into flesh, only that it had been dark, cold, clinical. That the world had been beautiful, but terrible. On the whole, life outside Hannibal’s mind was not dissimilar—but now she was free to explore it, with a body that made grown men fall to their knees, and a face that stopped people in their tracks. Wendy was a force to be reckoned with, the only ‘human’ alive who truly knew what Hannibal was thinking, could feel it, could _influence_ it…

And, if pressed, she could shape-shift into a demonic, tar-black stag man. That was a definite perk.

In light of all this, the fact that Baby was formerly a car came as no surprise to her. If anything, it seemed a little banal.

“Mmh?” Baby blinked up at her through one heavy-lidded eye, beads of sweat standing out on his brow. The remnants of poisonous medication were still pulsing through his system, and he felt weak, queasy, not able to properly formulate a thought.

The hospital room was quiet, for once. Although Baby had a private room, the hustle and bustle in the corridors and hallways of the busy ward, the persistent hack of the old woman in the room next door usually prevent the solace of silence. Yet now, in this moment, everything seemed stilled. Almost calm. Wendy propped herself up on his chest, looked up at him seriously.

“…don’t care…” Baby shrugged. Even the slight movement of his shoulders was draining, an insurmountable effort that sapped all of his energy. He looked at her, and even the movement of his eyeballs was tiring. He hated himself. How thin he was. How pale. How useless.

“…what about a movie?” Wendy’s tone was light, but she did a bad job of hiding how concerned she was. She sat up in bed, fumbled for the remote. “I downloaded a few things I thought you might be interested in…nothing too heavy,” she glanced back at him, smiled, the tight smile of someone trying to make the best of an awful situation. She’d spent hours scouring the internet for films that wouldn’t be too _serious._ Something light, to keep Baby’s spirits up. Comedies. Romantic comedies. Hell, _porn_ , even. As long as it wasn’t too serious. As long as nobody _died_.

Baby shrugged. “…sure” even one word was an effort, felt like holding marbles in his mouth. He cleared his throat.

Wendy smiled slightly, gave up on the wall-mounted TV and reached over the edge of the bed, pulled her laptop up. A few mouse-clicks, and she found what she was looking for.

“This might appeal to you…” she glanced back at him, tried not to notice how frail he looked, how his hair had begun to think, how his cheeks were sinking in on themselves. She smiled again—strained. Hopeful. “It might not be the best copy—it’s a newer film, just came out in theatres. Silly, really—romantic comedy, you know? But it might appeal…”

She clicked again. Loaded the film.

Static. Black and white flickering. The shadows of people in the theatre where the rip was filmed chatting to one another, throwing popcorn, sitting.

Saul Lecter’s face swam onto the screen.

In grainy text, poorly subtitled in Mandarin Chinese _, CAN I TOUCH YOUR DAISY?_ scrolled across the screen


End file.
